


Speak to Me of Dragon Fire

by ThirthFloor



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awkward Thranduil (Tolkien), Blind Thranduil, Caring Bard the Bowman, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fëar (Tolkien Concept), Good Parent Thranduil, Hurt Thranduil (Tolkien), Hurt/Comfort, King Bard the Bowman, M/M, Parent Bard the Bowman, Parent Thranduil, Protective Bard the Bowman, Sad Bard the Bowman, Scars, Smitten Bard the Bowman, Thranduil Not Being An Asshole, Trust, dragon fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24873877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirthFloor/pseuds/ThirthFloor
Summary: Thranduil is awoken by nightmares of battle, and Fëar causes his scars to emerge. Bard finds him awake, and shocked at the sight, he immediately moves to alleviate his fellow king's pain.
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil
Comments: 10
Kudos: 119





	Speak to Me of Dragon Fire

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this on a plane, when I had no access to my Google Docs and my other WIPs. It began as an imagery exercise, but after getting 10 pages in, I decided to turn it into a oneshot!! Enjoy!!

Dragon fire had a distinct scent, entirely unique to the senses of men, dwarves, and elves. Where earthly fire burned hot, flames from a dragon scorched cold. Granted, if one was close enough to be seared by it, they would have no means of differentiating the types; all that would be known is torture. Scalding like boiling water, drying and suffocating like the smoke of an entire kingdom burning; all comprehension is forgotten when dragon fire graces the skin with its cutting tongues.

All that is known is torture – pain beyond belief, cries beyond recognition, expression beyond meaning. Dragon fire was unforgiving, if the word had an embodiment.

The king of the Mirkwood had known those flames, long before his kingdom had fallen to the disgraceful name the men of this earth gave it. Back when it was the Greenwood, teeming with life and eternity in itself; back when it reflected the elven people that lived within it, and not a desecration to their very nature.

 _Yes_ , King Thranduil knew dragon fire. He knew that it blazed as white as the starlight his people worshipped, not the same golden, scarlet depictions that the foolish described it as. He knew that it was an all-consuming light, bleaching the senses and devouring time itself. It claimed futures, destinies, all that lay in its path with naught more but a fiery, damning maw.

Few had survived such an agony – whether claiming their life, however long it may be, or scarring them for the duration of their remaining winters, Thranduil had long pondered which sentence was worse.

Oftentimes, he preferred death. Although, the scarring only played a minor factor in that cruel, crucial admission.

He dreamt of such an end now, in one of the endless nights in the halls of the palace. He dreamt of an end by fire, only it would not end. He dreamt of torture with no goal, pain with no relief, and an ending with no end. He dreamed of purgatory, lost in the maelstrom of the loneliest fears and the harshest of wars, with all illness in between.

He dreamt of the end.

A glimpse of the late queen finally awoke him, a strangled cry in the shape of her name tearing forth from his throat in a tone unfitting utterance of an elf. It shredded the silence of the chamber as the king jolted forward from his slumber, seated upright with the soft sheets strewn to the floor. Sweat clung to his fair skin, stinging the left side of his body.

Salty tears leaked from a milky left eye rendered blind, and Thranduil choked his breaths as his body warred to discern where it was, when it was, _how_ it was. The scars were showing, brutal and gaping. He did not need a mirror to see them, but staggered forth, tripping indelicately over flowing white nightrobes in haste to find one.

The king’s slender, quaking hands clasped around the edges of a tall vanity mirror as he stared at himself through the gaze of one piercing blue eye. _Fëar_ had taken hold, stripping the elven magic from his body as he slept and nightmares had reigned free. It intermingled with the tangible wounds marring his grace, contorting into something ugly in the darkness.

“ _Galad_ ,” Thranduil commanded, a weak, warm glow of ochre hue blooming and highlighting the spacious royal chambers. Chambers that had since been meant for two, kept only for one’s solitude.

The candles further illuminated the nasty sight, and if the king had not been so painfully familiar with his true appearance, he would have recoiled in disgust. Instead, he bared his teeth at the reflection and growled, in spite of the image but only a small bolster of courage to chase the ghosts of dreams away. It continued to burn, to sear and sting; the marks of dragon fire that adorned his skin throbbed, a dull and aching hurt that reminded his waking hours of the imperfections and cruelties of the living, eternal life of his people. With many winters came eternal burden, a lesson long learned but difficult to accept for any race.

He traced the lines with his seeing eye. Webs of tissue snaked up from the lower left half of his face, his lip curled on the edge in a thin, taught sneer. The lining grew deeper as it neared a sharp cheekbone, curdled horrifyingly around the pale marble-like content of his ruined eye socket. The forehead that disappeared into pale, tussled hair was not a fair sight, either. His left ear was blackened, tapered end split.

Thranduil’s breath heaved, chest rising and falling rapidly, undignified. He scowled at himself, suddenly bringing those same trembling hands to tear at his clothing. Fine fingernails nearly scratched at his own skin, but he would not register the pinpricks against the pulsing of his ancient war wounds.

Dragon fire lingered, yes, as it was unforgiving.

He managed at last to tear open his robe, loose threads flying helplessly as the thing was cast to the floor in a pool of silvery silks. The king was left half-dressed, torso on display before himself in all its filthy glory.

Dragon fire left a very specific mark, scars that emulated the thing that created it, as if an artistic rendition would be chiseled onto the thing that lived to bear them. These faux flames, a memoir of the battle in which they were earned and the creature who created them slain, curled about the chest and side of the elven king. The skin of his neck carried the spillover from this center of the wound, skin coiled at the shoulder and pulling that of his chest and side, until the pale traces of the past faded back into healthy, remaining skin.

He had memorized these lines, these marks, all of them reminders of what his long life bore from violent pasts; brought forth by _Fëar,_ the emanation of those same feelings, when they shattered through the magic carefully put in place to conceal it.

The king had memorized his flaws, and yet, now he could not keep himself from weeping. Perhaps it had been the dreams, the vision of his dead wife in the flames, a culmination of the two greatest moments in his very, very long life that he had felt real terror.

That he had expected – and wished for – his life to end.

The memories were unwelcome, but _oh_ , as was with the cause of his curdled appearance, unforgiving. Persistent, harsh, always prevalent… They pushed themselves to the forefront, if only to cause him torment.

Tears spilled forth from his seeing eye, leaking crudely from the other, and the king of the northern elves stumbled backwards, falling back on a fainting sofa. He cried out the name of his queen, whimpered the name of his son, then gathered his tangled robes to wrap around himself and wept in isolation.

~

The king of Dale often found himself restless in the halls of the palace, sleepless nights causing him to wander its endless corridors with an absence of mind and dullness of sense. He watched the shadows hazily, felt the occasional draft as it brushed past to kiss his skin, but paid no additional mind. He did not know the cause of such disturbance, only that walks about were commonly enough to soothe him once he returned to his chambers for rest.

Bard passed the doors to the rooms in which his children slept. It had shocked most of the royal court when King Thranduil announced that Bard would be welcome at any time, along with his children. Many elves had been skeptical about the gesture, wondering what idea could have prompted it, but none – at least publicly – questioned it. And Bard himself did not complain, for his children loved the forest dearly.

Bain was being instructed in his bowmanship by the available guardsmen, and was easily catching up to even the expert ranks of the elven soldiers themselves. Thranduil had commented briefly to the boy’s father that his natural ability reminded him of his own son, although Bain demonstrated more in his frustration when things did not excel as planned. Bard agreed, merely pleased to see his son finding pride, and his fellow king seeming to find a sense of satisfaction in watching it as well.

Of course, there was the shared swell of pleasure at the elven king taking kindly to his children. The setting was growing to be familial, and Bard tried to hold back his desire to openly voice such thrilled sentiments.

Tilda and Sigrid themselves had taken more to exploring at first, escorted when they ventured from the palace, which was rare since they found so much in the art and beauty of its winding halls. Sigrid had discovered the royal library: mountains of scrolls, bound books, and old texts of the history, legends, and stories of the Greenwood elves. On the other hand, her younger sister preferred to hear the tales from the king himself.

It was strange, at first, so see the refined King of Mirkwood establish such a domestic relationship with his own children. From the comments on Bain’s posture when he stood in the practicing range, to the simple inquiries to what Sigrid selected to read next, it was clear that there was a joy he found in watching their progress, as if he had missed when his own children were young. It was also observable in the fleeting smiles that would dash across his lips when Tilda would perch on his knee as he sat on the throne and told her stories.

Bard watched as the King grew fond of them. And he witnessed that fondness mirrored in return. It warmed his heart, and encouraged his own admiration and affection for the elf king to grow beyond the doubted and hidden attractions that had developed long before.

Bard’s wandering mind seemed to have brought him to an adjacent corridor, the one that contained the chambers of the king himself. He stopped the careless motion of his steps and looked down the darkened hall, deciding it would be best to turn around from here. There was no sense in disturbing anyone else because of his own inability to find sleep.

That was, until he saw the condemning glow of candlelight from under the door, and heard an evermore concerning scrape of furniture. Bard hesitated, dark eyes focused on the door itself, as if it would open and his presence would be discovered.

But instead, he heard nothing.

There was movement inside, yes. He heard something before, a rustling of clothing, a murmur in Sindarin; but it seemed that if the king were awake, he thought himself alone.

Something of it felt unnerving, a heaviness in the air and almost a smokiness that prickled his sense of smell. There was a familiarity to the scent that set the human on edge, tensing his muscles and causing his pupils to dilate defensively. Curiosity only peaked and tinged with worry, he moved swiftly to the door.

When he listened again, he heard nothing.

Any man in his right mind would have either left or knocked. Bard did neither; instead, he took a breath and pushed the door open, the hinges making naught but a sound. The sight before him was forlorn in a beautiful sense, jerking his heart in his chest in a sympathy almost painful.

“My King…” The words escaped almost accidentally, a breathless whisper of the reaction gripping at his throat. At the sound, Thranduil rose from the fainting sofa, his chest bare but sweeping to cover it by clutching flowing nightrobes to his figure.

He did not speak, only stared silently at his surprising guest as his chest rose and fell with stuttering breath.

Bard noticed first the striking expression of his eyes, the unsettled energy in them that he had rarely seen before. Usually his eyes shone icily from under stern brows, striking in a sense that chilled and enchanted, but as they caught his attention now, they blazed. The look held was more akin to that of the core of a flame, flashing blue but flickering uncertainly.

And then Bard noticed that only one carried that hue; the other was a milky white, unseeing and blank. It was framed by harsh wounds he had never seen before on the elf, twisted tissue snaking up his skin, creeping along his face and down his neck. Bard’s dark gaze followed the line, a growing horror, a sadness emerging in his gut as he witnessed the breadth of the injury. Momentarily, his breath caught in his throat, but not before he placed the familiar scent from earlier.

Smoke from dragon fire.

Bard did not understand. He repeated, “My King…” Swallowed. “What is this? What ails you?”

Thranduil’s eyes remained wide. There was something about the way he appeared in this light, with his hair disheveled from previous sleep, curling around his face that was both ghastly and somehow hauntingly beautiful. It was vulnerable, in a way that Bard had never lain eyes on him before. It was nothing short of intimate, however unfortunate the circumstances may be.

At last, he spoke, but unlike Thranduil’s usual cadence, so passive and yet elegant, his voice wavered. “You need not look, if it disturbs you.”

The tone reminded Bard momentarily that he was not some divine being, held so far on a pedestal above him, but a creature of the earth just as he. Although a king infinitely more lovely, more precious than Bard ever would describe himself to be, he was capable of the same ends of emotion that encompassed all from joy to hurt. Bard stepped into the room, thinking only to offer what meagre semblance of comfort he may provide.

“I will not look away unless it causes you discomfort.” Bard did not take his warm gaze off the elven king as he moved further into the room, stepping carefully to not intrude. He made sure every movement was not unwelcome, watching for any sign of heightened distress.

As he came closer, Thranduil only seemed to grow more weary, but did not resist the king of Dale’s advances until he stood facing him.

Thranduil drew his robes closer, looking away so that his hair may curtain the damaged side of his profile. The light from the candelabra formed a halo about his head, a replacement for the crown that usually rest in place.

It was softer, tender. Bard did not mind the sight in the least.

“You are unwell,” He continued, hesitating to reach out. He doubted that the king would want to be touched in this state, so he intended the slight raise of his hand to be calming. “It is alright. Please, tell me what this is, Thranduil.”

A small sigh escaped the elf’s pale lips, and he closed his eyes in repose. “You are persistent. Most would turn away at the sight.” A pause. “Tell me, Bard, do you truly wish to know what caused this deformity? I assure you, this will pass and I may rest without your presence here.”

“I did not know you kept such secrets from me, my friend, although I will state that I am not surprised. There is much of you and much of your people that I have yet to understand.”

Falling ever quieter, there was a pensive nature about Thranduil exposed only to kin and close friends. Bard liked to consider himself at least as a member of the latter category. “Forgive my shame, then, for this is… a lack of metaphysical control, which you are seeing.” Pale eyes, only one of use, darted over to his guest before shifting to gaze away once more. “Within elven magic, there is something by the name of _Fëar_. It is a curse, more like, as an embodiment of all past anguishes, those conjured by the passing of time and the suffering of our people. It is brought forth in times of vulnerability, of hurt, in the form of wounds present on the bearer.”

Bard remained hushed, staring at the one before him and processing his anguish, his own heart clenching in a desire to take him into his arms and chase such a foul magic away. “I take that it pains you then, if they are conjured by such horrible memories. Once the moment fades, will the scars vanish again as well?”

Bard longed once more to reach out to him, to brush his fingers in a gentle, healing touch over the wounds, to wish them away with soft words and easy assurances. Such gestures he had never offered to this king, this being so far out of reach and of such a divine nature, and yet he had thought of it often, even when his skin was not tainted with injury.

Thus being, the urge only grew when Thranduil then shook his head, platinum blonde locks shifting once more, intimately undone, and a sorrow settling back into his expression. “These scars resemble more than a manifestation. They are my own.”

He seemed so forlorn in this light, marred by wounds Bard had never before seen; he wondered then the number of others who had been graced by this image, however sad it may be. And the resulting conclusion that the count must be so few twisted something in Bard’s chest, a deep ache within his gut. To survive for an eternity with such wounds, to hide it due to a grace and beauty outstanding in the customs of the race… It presented a complicated array of emotion that Bard had not the words to share.

He prodded with a question. “What are they from?”

Thranduil took a breath. “Through my time on this ground, I have experienced the rise and fall of many great armies. But with such time brings such consequences, that no being who endured may move past unscathed. These… are from long ago, when dragons were more commonplace in their conquest.”

A faint gasp made its way past the bargeman’s lips. “You have been seared by dragon fire…”

Bard recalled it then; he understood clearly the hatred that the Elven King had portrayed on their arrival to Erebor. He had placed it against the dwarves, understanding the disgust brought on by millennia of mistrust and conflict. But, shockingly he had never placed that hatred upon the beast itself for such base reasoning as fear. He had expected the jealousy and spite of the birthright gems, the hungered desire to claim the standing once torn, but he had not considered the _fear_ that came along with the presence of a dragon.

It should have been obvious, for he had seen in a moment when the corpse of the serpent lie in Laketown, how Thranduil’s gaze had flickered uncertainly in that direction upon hearing the recount. He saw the way he bristled when the scent clinging to him, the smoke of Smaug’s flames, filled the silent space between them when he had first spoken to this king. The way it sunk into his skin, faded now but sometimes emerging in the form of memory, startling them both even in times of repose.

Bard could not fight the frustration, this _protectiveness_ that rose in his chest and his throat at the sight – at the _thought_. He could not help it, and knelt before Thranduil to take his hands.

Light from their lack of rings, he momentarily marvelled at the slender delicacy of his fingers. He did not take his eyes from his face; he saw how it made the king ashamed, but he could not shift his gaze from all that remained beautiful to him.

“It was long ago, yet it still pains me.” Thranduil himself could not hold the gaze, eyes turning downcast and a flush blossoming beneath the side of his skin that stayed pale. “Do not gape upon it now, my king. Leave me to my shame and seek out your rest.”

“You could have told me.” There was anger in his tone, a steaming heat not directed at the elf before him, but at that which would cause him to hurt alone. “I know that there are secrets among your people, traditions and tales and things shaped for far longer than my time of living, things that I will never understand. That is all known to me. But a matter as delicate as this, one that petrifies you such as this, has no place being locked up from those closest to you. And I would…” Dark eyes widened as the man realized where he overstepped. “I would hope you consider me close.”

Thranduil stiffened, but did not withdraw his hands. His eyes remained unfocused, cast to the side as to not see the sympathy wavering in Bard’s. He would not look up to see the care and admiration there in its place. “I did not wish to sully my image, for you to see myself marred. I wished for you to see me only as I wished to show you, not… the unpleasantries that lie beneath.”

“They may be wounds, but I do not see them as impure. I see you no less for their presence, my king. Few of us pass through life unmarked, as you said. And for one whose life is as long as the earth itself, I find it wrong to expect yourself a clean slate.” Bard hesitated once more. He did not want to push where unwanted, but this issue pressed as one put away for far too long, and one he yearned to alleviate.

For a being he adored so deeply, for one he found so enchanting, any denial of that view put a bitter, sour taste on his tongue. This needed to be set right.

“Please, look at me, my king.” He said it after silence, drawn out and taut like a thread prepared to break.

“How may a man as unconventional as yourself, a king in his position by deed rather than disposition, have such words to share with one like me?” Thranduil spoke slowly, his deep voice soft, a mere whisper to be contained only within the candlelight about them. The sound did not escape into the shadow of the room. “What would you know of the suffering of my people, of myself? And what courage brings you forth to spend these thoughts on my deaf ears?”

“I did not ask for the position of king, and that admittance shows that I am nothing short of an honest man. You know this, for you have spoken this fact to me before.” Bard leaned forward, on his knees before the king as if asking for his blessing; whether that be to touch or to be heard, to be accepted or even denied, he knew not. “I do not know the suffering of your people, for I have not lived it. But I do know what I have observed, the traits that are present across all those who live. I have seen your joy, your humour, your sorrow and strength and now your pain. I know these things by observation.”

At last, he reached up to cup the King’s cheek, afraid to tilt his chin from the other side lest touching the scars provoke them. He was pleased when Thranduil, hesitant as it may be, leaned into his touch. Their eyes met.

“And the final question?” The elven king said quietly, his seeing eye focused on the rising hope that made itself apparent in the king of Dale’s gaze, growing ever so fond.

Ever so appreciative, attentive, loving.

“Call it foolish, call it bold. Call it bravery if you may. But I cannot see that whom I care for so deeply deny himself in this way. I cannot see that which I love desecrated in such a manner, even if it be by his own thoughts and words.”

Thranduil was silent. He stared, through one eye seeing and one eye blind, and the connection was there. His lips were slightly parted, a pause before he attempted to speak again. “I call it poetic. That which I would not expect from a man like you, but a pleasant surprise too earnest to ignore.”

“As is the meaning of my name,” Bard smirked, a hopeful gesture as the hand still holding one of the elf king’s tightened, “Although it is not a title I would have assigned to myself, either. But I mean every word – as I said, I am an honest man. These scars do not make you any less of a king, any less beautiful than you are. They are _part_ of who you are, and have shaped you by it.”

He eased his grip, cheeks flushing from the truth of his speech and the earnesty behind it. The desire for Thranduil to understand was too much, and the hope that he would not cast aside the bargeman’s feeling had risen to dangerous levels. His heart was on his sleeve, exposed in these quiet hours in elven halls. “I am not asking you to bare them to all who may see. I am not asking you to forgive the creatures that caused them, or even grow fond of them. I am simply asking you for your pride. I am asking that you do not look on them as something poor, do not find shame in an aspect that bolsters the whole.”

Silence.

Thranduil took his turn, took his time to respond. “I will never not be plagued by this pain, by this disgust that I carry. But perhaps… with your help, with baring myself to you as not a man, but as an equal, but as one who understands… perhaps I will learn this peaceful acceptance for which you implore.” He then lifted a hand to rest atop Bard’s, the one still pressed delicately against his cheek. “You wish to continue to see them?”

“It is an intimacy I am not eager to abandon. I… value where our bond has brought us.”

“And to further that bond, you would allow me to expose every dark tale that haunts my past.” It was not a question, a statement of conditions for the change in their shared future.

Bard swallowed, the implication of such change resting heavily in the words but elating his heart. It was a confession and an acceptance although subtle in delivery. “I would. Your history is nothing simple, and I long to study it, my king. I have for some time.”

“I know you have, and I… have grown inclined to share.” Thranduil again paused, turning so that the cut of one tapered ear would loosen a curtain of hair once more, and Bard did not hesitate to reach up with his spare hand and brush the strays back away from his face. “It will come slowly, but no change comes without patience. I am willing to be so if you are as well.”

“I am.” Bard answered quickly, the readiness of his response a mirror of the readiness of his heart, his values.

Thranduil nodded. “Then so it will be. I should rest, as should you, for these scars must fade before I am ready to bring them up again. The tale is not an easy one, and it goes deeper than what is seen.” He paused, a softening in his expression. “You have made me ready for this, Bard of Laketown. The king of Dale. Our bond as rulers has brought us together, and now I see it as a companionship. It is such a bond that I am willing to explore through this vulnerability. And I only ask that you be willing to partake.”

A companionship. Such a trust that Bard had only dreamt to achieve with him, was now being offered. He took it with a hope and expectance for what may come of it, what bliss may be granted by furthering such a relationship. “I will tell you anything you may want to know. You have my word.”

Something shifted across the line of Thranduil’s face, a passing shadow from the flickering of the light contorting a feature at place on his jaw. More continued to lessen, to fade and stitch itself back together with a healing silence. Bard watched as he spoke. “Then it is settled. Your presence has soothed me, as I believe was your intent.”

“It was… and while those scars are hidden, you will think less of hiding from me?”

A sage smile, light and growing lighter as the adjustment, the fading of the scars reached his face, bringing the blaze back to his wounded eye and the quirk back to his lips, was the answer Bard needed. “I would not even try, for hiding is something that has long been done, long been mastered. Perhaps revelation is a new challenge that faces all people, and I do not intend to be left behind in such a movement. Elves have come with the ages, and some things may not change. But to adapt is to survive, and these coming years to be shared with you are a part of my such survival.”

“As you said then, it is done.” Bard rose to his feet, the king still sitting before him. He gazed long at the angles of his face, the mix of his complexion, the silk of his hair. He gazed long at the beautiful being he had grown fond for, and in the portrayal of the night, had earned such a fondness in return. He thought of the place where the scars once lie, and granted himself a final courtesy.

With gentle fingers under the cut of Thranduil’s chin, he bent down and kissed the cheek on which the damage lay hidden. The brush of his lips was brief, a mere whisper of tenderness, but it sent a shiver down the elven king’s spine all the same. Bard did not fight the smirk that curled his lips as he pulled away, admiring the pink suggestion that adorned the king’s cheeks as he turned to leave the chambers.

“I just said you would be a component in my survival, but now I fear you will be the death of me.” Thranduil’s eyes, wide in a vulnerable moment, followed the figure of the man as he cracked open the door to slip into the hall. He turned with a supporting hand on the back of the sofa to follow the gaze with such ease. “If that is how you intend to end the coming nights, I may have to devise a better arrangement for the location of your stay.”

“Then do so, my King. I will depart in the manner that I please, unless I do not leave from your embrace.” Bard’s smile was kind as his words teased, a respect and excitement for this newness flooding into the affection of his dark eyes. “You would do well to rest, as should I, and I and the children shall see you in the morning.”

“The children… yes, for I love them too as my own. I will see the family then. Goodnight to you, dragon slayer.”

“By beast or by scar, I will heal that which the dragon marred.”

“Compose me a ballad, if you have such time. Go now, _rest_.”

A final grin before he closed the door, quietly calling, “Alright, alright, as you command, my king.”

Thranduil smiled as he heard through the door, saying now only to himself. “You are a king for purposes honourable, and I contemplate your command over my ways and my feelings as well.”

**Author's Note:**

> Translations/Concepts incase they weren't clear!
> 
> 'Galad' - Sindarin for "light".  
> "Fëar" - Concept of elven magic that suggests that wounds can be manifested in times of great stress or anguish, to take a physical image for ease of expression. It is suggested that this is what happened when Thranduil was bickering with Thorin over the "serpents of the North", but I like the idea of such a beautiful Elf King having real scars, so I combined the ideas in a form that the scars break through the concealing magic when Fëar manifests.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed this one!! It was a really good exercise for me!!
> 
> Leave a comment if you liked it! I respond to each and every one, and I LOVE to hear from you!!
> 
> If you would like to further support my writing, follow me on Twitter @thirthfloor or Tumblr @aegir-emblem (main), @juggled-muse (writing)!


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